


In which Grantaire puts that Bottle to Good Use

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Desperation, Grantaire is a cheeky bastard, M/M, Watersports, Wetting, sort of anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, ignoring his bodily functions for the sake of the revolution, has gotten himself into a predicament of sorts that Grantaire is gracious enough to help him with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Grantaire puts that Bottle to Good Use

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the kink meme: One of the Amis gets a little wrapped up in his work (Enjolras in the middle of pamphlet writing, Combeferre doing something sciencey, Jehan finishing a new poem, Feuilly ranting about Poland, I don't even care) and tries to ignore some of his more pressing bodily functions. Another Ami notices his desperation and/or accidental wetting and either comforts him through his embarrassment or sees it as an excuse for sexytimes. Or both.

Grantaire tips his bottle back and catches the final drops of sweet wine on his tongue, sighing to himself. He's sad to see it go; this meeting is a particularly boring one, as his only reason for coming at all is sitting by himself in the corner scratching out rough drafts of a pamphlet that the Les Amis will apparently be disseminating to the public in the morning. Hidden away like that Apollo is of no use to him. He's left Combeferre in charge, and Combeferre is about ten times harder to pick a fight with.  
  
A _debate,_ he reminds himself, not a fight. A debate is civilized.  
  
And a fight can't be flirtatious.  
  
Aside from that, though, in all seriousness- Enjolras deserved to shine and Grantaire wanted to bathe in the light of him.  
  
So, as no one is paying him anymore attention than he is them, the drunkard gets to his feet, snatches Courfeyrac's bottle right from under his nose, and makes his way to the corner.  
  
As he approaches, he starts to notice something... off about his angel of a man. Enjolras always has perfect posture, perfect handwriting, and an intensity that was often misconstrued as mania which made most civilians wary of coming too close to the charismatic, beautiful being when he's ranting off revolutionary nonsense. He's more than intimidating when he wants to be and sometimes when he doesn't. But right now, all Grantaire can think is that he looks like a child, squirming in his seat, tense and hunched over the paper he's supposed to be writing on.  
  
His pen moves feverishly, but in jerky movements. His brow is furrowed in concentration. It's obvious that he won't allow anything to distract himself from the task, but what's having a go at it anyways is a mystery.  
  
Grantaire wrinkles his nose and saunters closer, lifting the bottle to his lips again. "Apollo," he calls, drawing up behind him and clapping him on the shoulder. Enjolras tenses beneath his hand, head snapping up, and if he'd been a little less inebriated he would have feared for his life. Instead, he leans around to grin at him.  
  


"Salutations, Apollo," he greets him cheerfully, taking in the exasperation scrawled all over the golden leader's face. Hmm. Normally he's a bit more subtle about it, civil at least. Now he looks vaguely like he wants to kill Grantaire, and usually he saves that sort of blatant hostility for the later hours of the night when Grantaire has had twice as much to drink. No matter.  
  
"Grantaire," he grits out, his eyes burning almost feverishly. His jaw is set so firmly it seems as though it could crack at any moment. Grantaire raises an eyebrow in response. "There is work I have to do. I don't appreciate interruptions."  
  
"You wound me." The drunk feigns hurt, pressing a hand to his chest, curling an arm around those tense shoulders. If he hadn't known better he'd say that Enjolras was _trembling._ But that couldn't be right, could it? Surely he wasn't that angry. "Do I constitute as an interruption, o fearless leader? Would you send me away? I'll do anything you want. Your wish is my command. Let me stay, I beg of you."  
  
His ramblings would normally earn him a roll of the eyes and a firm reminder of his place, perhaps even a smart remark about the revolution. None are forthcoming. As he was speaking, Enjolras' face had twisted just slightly and his eyes had squeezed shut, a pink flush blooming on his cheeks.  
  
 _Well._ Something has gotten under Apollo's skin. Grantaire hopes vaguely that it was him.  
  
"Well?" He prompts after a moment, nudging him. Enjolras opens his eyes to glare daggers at him before slowly, carefully looking back to the paper beneath his shaking pen. He looks as though he's in physical pain, although Grantaire can't imagine why. What on God's green earth could possibly have Enjolras in such a state? "What would you have me do?"  
  
"Work, Grantaire, there is _work_ to be done. So if you would be so kind..." The edge to his voice is desperate and Grantaire's eyebrows fly into his hair. He glances down to the man's other hand, pressed firmly to his thigh, and realization dawns on him with a shocked laugh.  
  
"One musn't neglect their earthly vessel, Enjolras," he grins, highly amused. There's no mistaking it now, the fidgety way he was holding himself, the distracted movement of his eyes to the back door. Enjolras was the least distractable man on the face of the earth and here he was, a god in human shape brought down to the level of an ordinary person by the size of his bladder.  
  
If possible, his glare becomes even more murderous. There's a definite flush on Enjolras' face now, embarrassment seeping through his collected facade. Oh God, this was just perfect. Grantaire wishes he had his sketchbook. "Get. Out. Of my sight," he orders in a low voice, catching a little at the end. His palm presses flat against himself and he ducks his head, golden curls obscuring what's surely a grimace of discomfort on his face.  
  
If Grantaire is honest with himself, he finds that just a little bit hot.  
  
"Alright, alright," he shrugs, lifting his bottle in a shrug. Just as he begins to obey, albeit sullenly, Enjolras shifts in his seat and his eyes go comically wide. Red blossoms high on his cheekbones. Grantaire knows what's happened without even looking. He can imagine the dark stain spreading over the front of his trousers, and he pities him for it, he does. He's a drunk, after all- he knows what it's like to piss oneself in a bar. So he does the first thing that comes to mind.  
  
He marches right up to him again and tips his bottle over Apollo's lap.  
  
"Oops," he says innocently, giving him a cheeky grin. Enjolras is frozen, staring up at him in some strange combination of horror at his own loss of control and an overwhelming gratitude that Grantaire is definitely kicking himself for not bringing his sketchbook now so he can memorize this moment.  
  
He steps away again, and there are titters behind him as the other amis turn to watch, obviously expecting some sort of rebuttal from their leader. Enjolras mouth shuts tightly and he looks back to his pamphlet, slowly, shakily beginning to move the pen again.  
  
"Anytime!" Grantaire calls as he exits the bar, discarding his now-empty bottle. He's grinning ear to ear, quite proud of himself. "Any place! You can count on me, Apollo. Au revoir!"


End file.
